The Sound of Silence
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: Post 9x13 – Slightly Injured Sam/Big Brother Dean – Usually after a conversation like they had experienced the previous night, they would avoid each other, especially the next morning. But here Dean was. Because Sam needed painkillers and water and someone to call him on his BS...and all of that sounded like a job for Dean Winchester.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Post 9x13 – Slightly Injured Sam/Big Brother Dean – Usually after a conversation like they had experienced the previous night, they would avoid each other, especially the next morning. But here Dean was. Because Sam needed painkillers and water and someone to call him on his BS...and all of that sounded like a job for Dean Winchester.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine of course. Just writing this to make myself feel better...

**Warnings**: Usual language along with spoilers for season nine.

**A/N**: Oh, boys...

* * *

_It is not our silence that is deafening but all the words underneath it, yelled in our heads. ~ __David Levithan_

* * *

There was silence.

The kind of silence that stretched too long.

The kind of silence that was easy to misinterpret.

The kind of silence that _ached_.

But there was nothing left to say.

With just four words, Sam had said it all.

And the silence afterward echoed.

Dean stood motionless in the dimly lit kitchen, staring down at his brother, speechlessly blinking as his heart pounded in his chest.

Sam momentarily held his gaze, looking unfazed...and then on the verge of tears, his lips pursing, his jaw working in that way it did when he battled emotion.

Dean had seen the expression enough to know that what Sam had just said had hurt Sam as much as it had hurt Dean.

But somehow that didn't help.

Not at all.

That knowledge did jackshit to stop the bleeding.

And Dean felt like he was bleeding out.

The silence lingered, empty and full.

"I'm gonna get to bed," Sam finally mumbled, his voice quiet and strangely hoarse as he stood from the table, ducking his head now and sheepishly refusing to meet Dean's shocked and wounded gaze.

...a classic sign that while Sam had meant what he had said, he also regretted the hurt that had accompanied his words.

_No, Dean. I wouldn't._

As in, I wouldn't have saved you.

As in, I would've let you die.

As in, fuck you, big brother. I'm better off without you.

Oh, yeah.

Dean had heard that last part loud and clear.

Just like Dean had heard Sam's other speech loud and clear, the one a week or so ago about them not operating as brothers anymore.

Dean clenched his jaw at the memory – at the fresh stab through his heart – and watched Sam leave the kitchen, listening to Sam's steps fade down the hall; the distant sound a perfect metaphor for how Dean felt…like his little brother was moving farther and farther away from him.

Sam pulling back, retreating, slipping away just beyond Dean's reach.

"Don't run too far ahead of me," Dean used to tell Sam when they were kids. "Stay where I can see you."

...where I can _reach_ you in case something bad happens.

...where I can _protect_ you.

And Sammy – that sweet, scrawny little kid – would always smile and nod.

"I'm never gonna leave you, Dean," Sam would say, speaking the way children often did...promising _never_ and _always_ as though _never_ and _always_ were tamed things, as though _never_ and _always_ could be controlled.

But that never happened.

Because circumstances...and _people..._always changed.

Dean snorted at that piercing truth and glanced around the kitchen as if he would find the answer tucked away in a corner. The solution to fixing what was clearly broken between him and Sam just waiting to be discovered in the bunker – yet another little tidbit of useful information and helpful advice stored away by the Men of Letters.

But what was wrong between him and Sam could only be _fixed_ by him and Sam.

And the enormity of that task was overwhelming...especially tonight.

Dean sighed, rubbing his hand down his scruffy face and remembering his other hand still held a glass...and the bottle of whiskey on the table was still full.

Coincidence?

Hell no.

It was a fucking godsend.

And Dean embraced it.

"Hello, darkness, my old friend..." he greeted as he downed the amber-colored dregs in his glass, grimacing at their familiar bite, and then reached for the bottle to pour more.

_I used to drink to drown my sorrows..._Dean had read somewhere someone had once said..._but then the damn things learned to swim. _

Dean nodded in agreement, though it certainly wouldn't stop him from trying to drown them tonight.

It seemed like a better idea than trying to talk to Sam.

Because Dean was tired and numb and _so fucking hurt_. He knew anything he did now, anything he _said_ now, he would regret later.

That was another lesson he had learned the hard way, although Dean wanted nothing more than to storm down to Sam's room and let it rip.

And _damn_, that would feel good – to release the rage and pain and guilt within instead of letting it fester and further infect their relationship as brothers.

But Dean knew for all the rage and pain and guilt that he felt, Sam felt more...because that was Sam's personality.

Dean was Little Miss Fucking Sunshine compared to Sam sometimes since Sam had always viewed himself as tainted and unworthy; as a burden, as a magnet for trouble and the reason everyone died.

Sam had even said those exact words when he was upset and drunk and stripped of his filter. "Everyone around me dies," he had told Dean as they had stood within inches of each other in their room at that bed and breakfast several years ago.

Dean lifted his glass now, rolling the whiskey in his mouth as he remembered his response back then.

"Well, _I'm_ not dyin'."

As if it was that simple...

But even then, Dean had lied to his brother.

Because over a year later, Dean would be dead and in Hell...and Sam had never stopped believing that was his fault; had never stopped believing that _he _should've died instead; had never escaped the haunting reality that he hadn't been able to save his big brother.

And maybe that was the issue here – or at least part of it. Maybe Sam said he wouldn't save Dean because he was convinced he _couldn't_ save Dean. Maybe that was why Sam hadn't looked for Dean in Purgatory as well.

Because experience was an often cruel but accurate teacher...and experience had taught – over and over – that no matter how much Sam sacrificed, no matter how much he tried, he couldn't save Dean.

And that was a jagged pill to swallow, especially when you were a little brother who already believed you didn't deserve to live; who already valued yourself as nothing.

"Jesus, Sammy..." Dean murmured in the quietness of the kitchen, feeling a bit unnerved at the reminder.

Because even now, even after what Sam had said earlier, Sam was still _everything_ to Dean.

A pain in the ass that Dean felt like punching in the fucking face sometimes...but Sam was still everything to his big brother.

And sure...if the proverbial tables had been reversed, maybe Sam wouldn't have saved Dean – but Dean would never stop saving Sam.

It just wasn't in him.

The protectiveness, the possessiveness ran too deep.

_There ain't no me if there ain't no you._

And Dean had meant every word.

Hell, Dean would even say it again if the stubborn little shit down the hall would listen to him and stop pushing him away.

But that was another classic Sam move...to lash out and push away, to become uncharacteristically cold and withdrawn when he was hurting.

"I'm fine," Sam had assured numerous times over the years, only for Dean to discover later that his brother was bleeding or sick or soulless or seeing Lucifer himself.

_I'm fine._

Sure, Sammy.

Sure you are.

Dean snorted and once again emptied his glass, wondering at what age Sam had realized that if he was cruel enough, he could delay Dean's pursuit.

Maybe around the Stanford years...

But that was what Sam had been doing over the past week, that was what he was doing now – was being cruelly "honest" to distract Dean, knowing that Dean would be so consumed with his own hurt and anger for a while that he wouldn't see the real problem here.

Dean blinked, suddenly remembering his brother's words on that pier, remembering Sam calling to him as he had walked away.

_But don't go thinking that's the problem 'cause it's not._

...which meant what?

That Dean wasn't the problem...because _Sam _was?

That Dean wasn't poison...because that distinction belonged to Sam?

That Dean wasn't the reason people around them died...because that had always been Sam's claim to fame?

Dean sighed harshly. "God, we're fucked up..." he announced to the kitchen about him and his brother. "Fucked. Up," he repeated and poured another glass of whiskey before walking a small circle, feeling too restless to sit.

The bunker was once again silent, the muffled sounds of Sam getting ready for bed now gone since Dean assumed his brother was all tucked in.

"Snug as a bug in a rug," Dean used to sing-song as he did the tucking.

Sam would blink up at him, all floppy hair and sleepy smiles. "Stay?"

"With you?" Dean would ask as if he didn't already know his kid liked for him to stay close until he fell asleep.

Sam would nod with wide, hopeful eyes. "Please?"

Dean would nod in return and would get more comfortable on the bed beside his brother. "Where else am I gonna go, Sammy?"

Where else indeed...

Dean would always stay with Sam as long as Sam wanted him around.

But now...

Dean shrugged, refusing to follow the dark path of that thought, and scowled at the alcohol swirling in his glass, knowing it was making him overthink and teeter on the edge of becoming a sappy girl.

"You should go to bed," he told himself and nodded in agreement with his own advice.

And though Dean doubted he would sleep, the idea of lying down was appealing.

It had been a long day and a long drive...and was likely to be a long night.

Might as well spend it cradled in memory foam.

Dean nodded again, emptying his glass once more and setting it on the table as he switched off the light and left the kitchen.

He was two steps down the hall, heading toward his room when he heard it.

Dean frowned and immediately turned, instantly sober as he listened.

And there it was again – Sam coughing.

Dean felt his entire body react, his alertness increasing with his heart rate as adrenaline flooded his system.

And just like that, big brother was ready to swoop in and rescue.

Sam had been an ass earlier, but he had also been right; rescue mode was Dean's default setting when it came to his little brother.

And now, after what they had endured with the trials, Dean was always going to associate a coughing Sam...with a Sam coughing up _blood_.

Standing in the darkness of the hallway, Dean shook his head, knowing that was not happening – not now – but still unable to stop himself from moving in the opposite direction of his own bedroom.

"Dammit, Sam..." Dean grumbled at the power his little brother still held over him.

Because barely 20 minutes ago, Sam had acted like a heartless dick...but Dean was _still_ going to check on the kid.

Dean snorted – somehow feeling like he was being played – but quickened his pace, eager to see Sam now that he could hear his brother wheezing as well.

"No," Dean whispered at the horrible images filling his mind and didn't hesitate as he reached Sam's door; didn't even knock as he barged in, ready to perform fucking CPR if he had to.

How's _that_ for a savior, Sam?

Was that "hero" enough for you?

Dean clenched his jaw at the bitterness of his thoughts – at the bitterness in Sam's words – but still felt his heart pound in his chest with a mixture of fear and panic as he stood in the doorway.

Because even though he was pissed about what had been said earlier, Dean still needed Sam to be okay.

And Sam was.

He was fine.

Dean blinked as his eyes adjusted to the soft yellow glow from the bedside lamp left on, the light clearly showing a sleeping and _breathing_ Sam.

Dean released a shaky breath of his own – because _Sam was fine_ – and scanned the room for any lurking danger before approaching the bed.

Sam didn't stir but wheezed again.

Dean winced at the whistling sound, remembering a similar sound escaping Sam's throat as Alonso had attempted to choke him back at Canyon Valley.

Realization instantly dawned, and Dean crouched beside the bed, narrowing his eyes as his fingers skimmed the bruised, slightly swollen skin around Sam's neck.

Sam didn't wake but turned toward Dean's touch.

Dean froze, knowing the scene would not be pleasant if Sam awoke to find his meddling big brother once again hovering...and even performing a cursory triage.

Oh, the endless horrors of being cared for and loved...

Dean twitched a cynical smile, still crouched beside the bed, motionless and watching Sam.

But Sam only sighed in his sleep, his chin brushing Dean's knuckles.

"Out like a light..." Dean used to tell John when their dad would return late from a hunt and would ask about Sam.

John would nod at the report but would still glance at the bed farthest from the door…and there Sam would be – bundled beneath the covers and out like a light.

Just like he was now...

Dean felt an unexpected warmth spread through his chest...but then frowned as Sam wheezed again.

Dean tilted his head, angling for a better view of Sam's swollen throat and realizing his brother's airway was marginally restricted from the abuse of the pishtaco...and was now made worse by Sam's current sleeping position.

But that was easily fixed.

"Alright, Sammy. Roll over..." Dean told his sleeping brother, keeping his voice quiet as he carefully pushed against Sam.

Sam wrinkled his nose and grunted but remained asleep as he responded to Dean's hands smoothly, gently, expertly resituating him on the mattress.

_Just like old times._

Dean smiled softly at the brief flash of nostalgia and watched as Sam settled on his back and inhaled a deep, soundless breath.

Mission accomplished.

"Atta boy," Dean whispered, a hint of affection in his tone as if he was praising a puppy or a child.

He snorted and shook his head – imagining Sam's reaction to _that_ – and smoothed the blanket over his brother's chest, his hand lingering there as he felt the steady rise and fall, the reassuring heartbeat.

Dean swallowed as he felt something twist within his own chest.

"Damn right I'd do it again," he confessed to Sam as he slept, referring to his earlier statement about saving his little brother again if he was granted a do-over.

Nothing would change.

Dean would still save Sam.

Damn right he would.

Again and again and again...

And regardless of what Sam thought, Dean's decision to do so had very little to do with Dean...and everything to do with Sam.

They needed to talk about that.

But not tonight...obviously.

Dean sighed, lightly patting Sam's chest before standing and reaching for the lamp on the bedside table. "Tomorrow..." he promised his sleeping brother.

Because the longer they waited to sort this out, the harder it would be to fix.

That old adage about time healing all wounds was bullshit.

Sometimes time made the situation worse.

...and their current situation was already bad enough.

Dean sighed.

Sam mumbled something in his sleep – his closed eyes briefly squinting in pain as his split bottom lip snagged on the top – and then snuggled deeper into his pillows.

Dean smiled and switched off the lamp, wondering how he could ricochet from _so fucking pissed and hurt_ to _god-I-love-this-kid_ in the span of only a few minutes.

It seemed to be yet another mysterious power Sam held over him.

But Dean knew he still held a certain amount of power over Sam as well.

That's what happened when you were each other's weak spot.

And no matter what had changed between them over the years, _that_ had remained the same.

_All I'm saying, Sammy...all I'm saying is that you're my weak spot. You are. And I'm yours..._

Dean nodded as the words echoed...and then yawned, suddenly exhausted and drained.

He glanced at the bedside clock – not surprised that it was well past midnight – and sighed as he turned back to a sleeping Sam.

"See ya in the morning, Sammy..." Dean called over his shoulder as he exited his brother's room, leaving Sam's door cracked.

Because Dean refused to be shut out.

* * *

**_TBC_**


	2. Chapter 2

Dean sighed and stared at the ceiling above, trying to find the energy to get out of bed even as his eyes once again closed in a light doze.

He was tired – the kind of fatigue that went beyond just physical exhaustion – and the idea of having to start all over again, of having to face another day was both overwhelming and unappealing.

Especially since the bed was warm and the memory foam beneath him was like a giant marshmallow hug...and yeah...maybe just five more minutes...

Dean hummed his agreement with that decision and sank deeper into the mattress, floating in the haze between asleep and awake.

The silence from the previous night still lingered this morning, and Dean felt a twinge of worry at the realization that Sam was not up yet.

"Huh..." Dean grunted as the thought took root and turned his head, cracking one eye open to squint at the clock on the bedside table.

The numbers glowed back at him, red and blurry – 6:58.

The relief was instant.

"Still got time..." Dean mumbled and relaxed into the soft folds of his pillow.

Because he knew an injured Sam – even a _slightly_ injured Sam – could be expected to sleep until around 8:00...and if Sam wasn't up by then, _then_ Dean would resume his worrying.

But for now...

Dean sighed, feeling himself slip into the welcoming darkness...and then startled awake barely a second later.

He scowled – because _what the fuck?_ – and blinked rapidly, propping up on one elbow and trying to orient himself as he turned to the clock for another time check...7:46.

Dean glared, hating it when time pulled this Jedi mind-trick shit, and slumped back to the cocoon of his pillows and blankets and memory foam.

But if the bad news was that he was now awake, the good news was that _Sam_ was awake, too.

Dean nodded his approval as he slung his arm over his eyes and listened to his brother stumble around in the hallway.

Because Sam was capable of being remarkably quiet and graceful for his size...but not when he was still half-asleep.

"You're like a baby giraffe..." Dean had commented more than once to a groggy Sam, and the description was dead-on-balls accurate...to borrow a phrase from _My Cousin Vinny_.

Dean snorted at the memory of Sam's epic bitchface response and continued to listen as Sam now yawned and coughed and shuffled to the bathroom.

He took care of his morning business and then ran the water in the sink, washing his hands and his face and, if Dean knew his OCD little brother, brushing his teeth even before breakfast...and then would do so _after_ breakfast as well.

Dean shook his head good-naturedly – his hair rustling against the pillowcase, his forehead moving against his arm still slung over his face – and listened to the water gurgle down the drain, then heard Sam's sharp hiss of pain as he undoubtedly hit his busted lip with his toothbrush.

"Careful, Sammy..." Dean murmured out of habit and knew that Sam was now thumbing blood from the bristles with one hand while rinsing blood from his chin with the other.

The water shut off, the toothbrush rattled as it was placed back in the cup by the sink...and then there was silence.

Dean slid his arm off his face and opened his eyes, knowing Sam was carefully pressing the corner of a towel to his bleeding lip while staring at his reflection in the mirror, counting to himself as he took in the paleness beneath his scruff along with the bruises on either side of his neck.

_One, one thousand..._

_Two, one thousand..._

_Three, one thousand..._

_Four, one thousand..._

_Five, one thousand..._

...and towel check.

Sam was probably wrinkling his nose at the blood now staining the white fabric and dabbing a fresh corner to the blood still oozing from his lip.

A few more seconds passed before Dean heard Sam sigh and then cough...and then clear his throat...and then sigh again as the door of the medicine cabinet creaked open.

Dean arched an eyebrow.

Because the only thing they kept in their medicine cabinet was painkillers...and if Sam was searching for those, that meant his nearly strangled throat was sorer than Dean expected.

Or maybe Sam's head hurt.

After all, Alonso the pishtaco – which sounded like a _SpongeBob_ character – had slammed Dean's little brother through a fucking wall _before_ he had started to choke him.

"Fucker..." Dean growled at the memory, glad that he had been the one to kill that fat-sucking sonuvabitch.

Dean once again Sam's savior, his hero, swooping in to rescue.

And Sam had looked plenty grateful as he had sprawled on the floor, gasping and dazed before he had sat up and stared at Dean with wide eyes.

So apparently little brother didn't _always_ bitch and take issue with his big brother saving him.

But whatever...

That was done.

And while Dean would also do _that_ again, right now Sam was obviously in pain...and was looking in the wrong place for relief.

"Under the sink..." Dean reminded his brother two rooms away.

Because they had run out of painkillers last week, and while Dean had bought more on a supply run, he had not yet restocked the cabinet; had instead just stashed the entire Walgreens bag under the sink for later.

But apparently Sam had forgotten.

"Under the sink..." Dean repeated, though still not loud enough for Sam to actually hear him.

There was a beat of silence before Sam sighed, resolving himself to endure whatever throbbing he was feeling as the cabinet closed and the bathroom door opened.

Dean frowned and felt a pang of...something. Because even though Sam had been an ass to him the night before, Dean still didn't want the kid to suffer.

Dean was awesome like that.

And it was just another testament to how far, deep, and wide this big brother thing went.

There was no "off" switch.

Sorry, Sammy.

...and sometimes Dean was sorry for that, too.

It would certainly have saved him a lot of worry and heartache over the years if he could turn off the instinct, if he could resist the constant drive to make sure Sam was okay.

But no.

Sam being okay was pretty much Dean's priority in life.

And if that made him a selfish, codependent sucker...then so be it.

He had been called worse.

But nothing _felt_ worse than being without his brother.

And no matter what Sam said or how he acted, Dean knew that his little brother felt the same way.

There was nothing worse than being without each other.

Dean blinked, suddenly aware that a Sam-shaped shadow was stretching around his half-opened door as his little brother lingered in the hall, trying to determine if Dean was awake.

Dean felt a familiar warmth unexpectedly spread through his chest – reminded of a kid Sammy hovering within inches of his face most mornings of their childhood.

"You awake, Dean?"

"Jesus, Sam..." Dean would croak, startled and glaring. "I am now."

Sam would giggle at Dean's grumpiness and would wallow against his big brother's side.

"Ugh," Dean would complain, even as he wrapped his arm around his kid and pulled him closer. "Get off of me, runt."

And Sam would giggle again.

"But I can't go anywhere if you're holdin' me, Dean."

Dean would smile. "Exactly."

Dean heard his words echo as the memory faded, saw the flash of a kid Sammy's dimpled grin...and then refocused on his door, watching.

Still standing in the hallway, Sam shifted from one foot to the other; a classic sign that he was anxious and hesitant...and likely remorseful as hell over what had happened between him and his big brother the night before.

Because while Sam sometimes liked to pretend that he didn't care if Dean was angry with him, Dean knew otherwise.

All little brothers wanted to be in their big brother's favor, no matter how old those little brothers got.

And now that Sam had slept on what he had said, he was likely feeling guilty and worried...and maybe even a bit chatty.

Sometimes Sam liked to talk when he was upset.

...which meant Sam would possibly be receptive to the conversation Dean planned to have later.

The one about whatever the fuck was going on between them lately...and how they intended to fix it.

Because this shit was getting fixed.

_Damn right it is_, Dean silently agreed and continued to watch Sam at the edge of his bedroom door; catching a glimpse of black sweatpant and gray sleeve as his brother turned and headed back toward his own room.

...or...no...to the _kitchen_, if the direction of Sam's cough was any indication of his destination.

Dean frowned – already wishing his kid's cough would go the fuck away – and decided that he was done with lounging.

Sam needed painkillers and water and someone to call him on his bullshit...and all of that sounded like a job for Dean Winchester.

The one and only.

Dean twitched a smile and stretched, pushing the blankets away as though they were suddenly a nuisance. He rolled over, setting his bare feet on the floor before yawning and standing and crossing to the door Sam had been standing on the opposite side of only moments earlier.

In the next instant, Dean was in the hall and moving toward the bathroom with the agility and stealthiness of a freakin' tiger, thank-you-very-much.

Take notes, Baby Giraffe.

Dean twitched another smile, the expression growing as he inhaled the rich aroma of freshly brewing coffee and...

Dean paused in the bathroom's doorway and tilted his head as he stared down the hall.

Was that _bacon_?

He inhaled again.

Oh, yeah...definitely bacon.

Nothing smelled or sizzled quite like that delectable breakfast meat.

Hell, Dean was practically salivating now just thinking about it.

He could write poems about it.

_Roses are red, violets are blue...and bacon is awesome._

But more importantly, if Sam was frying bacon, then he was definitely in a peace-offering mood.

Because Sam didn't eat bacon – but he knew that Dean _did_ – and regretful little brothers also knew it was best to approach wounded big brothers with bacon, pie, or porn.

And since it was too early for pie...and Sammy was too Mother Teresa about porn...that made bacon the winner.

Dean nodded his approval, ducking into the bathroom and suddenly feeling a little more hopeful that maybe today would be better after all.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	3. Chapter 3

When Dean came out of the bathroom several minutes later, the coffee was still brewing, the bacon was still sizzling...and Sam was still coughing.

Dean frowned as the harsh sound echoed down the bunker's hall and glanced at the bottle of painkillers in his grasp, knowing the pills wouldn't treat the cough itself but hoping they would ease whatever irritation or pain was causing it.

Because Sam sounded terrible as he coughed once again – turning his face away from the food and into the crook of his elbow – and then cleared his throat; his back to the doorway as Dean approached the kitchen.

Dean stood there, watching his brother.

Sam crouched slightly, lowering himself in front of the stove until he was eye-level with the pan; inspecting a piece of bacon he held between the tongs like he wasn't quite sure what he was doing.

Dean twitched a smile.

Because he knew his little brother _didn't_ know what he was doing.

Sam's idea of breakfast was usually fruit and cereal and granola bars and all that crap...not frying raw meat in grease until it was nice and crispy.

But at least the kid was trying.

And he was trying for _Dean_.

That alone spoke volumes and helped soothe the wound caused by last night's words.

Dean's smile lingered and he cleared his throat, announcing his presence as he fully entered the kitchen. "So, what's the verdict?" he asked about the bacon still dangling from the tongs. "Is it done yet? 'Cause I'm starving..."

Sam's attention instantly shifted to the familiar voice behind him and he turned. "Dean. Hey..."

He sounded as hoarse as Dean expected.

Dean narrowed his eyes, taking in the bruises around Sam's neck – more vibrant than they were last night – along with his brother's split lip, a little puffier and showing traces of dried blood from the earlier toothbrush collision.

Sam's t-shirt hung lopsided across his shoulders from crouching forward, the V-neck revealing no tattoo on the left side of his chest...which reminded Dean that they _really_ needed to get that back in place.

Abaddon had said that she wanted to possess Dean, but she would surely take great pleasure in possessing Sam instead – the better to torment Sam's big brother.

Dean swallowed at the thought.

Sam shifted under Dean's intense gaze, self-consciously sweeping his hair out of his face, the strands still messy from sleep.

"You're up," Sam stated unnecessarily.

And Dean wasn't surprised that Sam sounded surprised.

Because usually after a conversation like they had experienced the previous night, they would avoid each other, especially the next morning.

Sam was making breakfast for Dean, but he undoubtedly thought he would have to leave the plate in the microwave with a note.

But here Dean was.

And he was looking straight at him.

Sam tried to smile, the expression shy and uncertain. "Hey..." he repeated.

"Hey," Dean returned, hating it when Sam acted awkward around him – even if the kid deserved it.

"I, um...I made coffee," Sam announced and nodded at the counter.

Dean turned to look at the coffee unmistakably poured just for him since it was steaming in a Batman mug..._his_ Batman mug. The mug Sam had given him when they had first officially moved in to the bunker.

"You said this place was the Batcave, so..." Sam had offered in explanation and had shrugged, had seemed embarrassed once he had actually given the gift.

Dean had chuckled as he had sat at the massive table with the matching lamps. "Dude, this _is_ the Batcave," he had assured, gesturing at the expanse, at the sheer awesomeness of the bunker around them. "And we established long ago that I am, in fact, Batman, so..."

Sam had snorted. "Yeah. You're...something."

Dean had pulled a face at his little brother's comeback.

Sam had smiled. "You like it?"

"Hell yeah," Dean had confirmed, proudly examining the mug before returning his brother's smile. "Thanks, Sammy." He had paused. "So, does this mean you have a Robin mug?"

Sam had rolled his eyes but had laughed. "Shut up."

"Or maybe a Cat Woman mug..." Dean had amended, smiling in that way he did whenever he was teasing his little brother. "Yeah. That's more your style. Black leather and all that kinky shit..."

Sam had flashed a mild bitchface from across the table. "You done?"

Dean had chuckled again. "I'm done if you're done," he had quipped and had held the mug upside down, shaking it. "But where's my coffee, bitch?"

Sam had sighed dramatically and had taken the mug from Dean's grasp as he had stood.

"Atta boy, Sammy..." Dean had praised, knowing his brother was headed to the kitchen. "Chop, chop."

Sam had glared a playful, heatless expression over his shoulder. "Just for that, I'm gonna spit in your coffee, Dean."

Dean had cringed, though he had known his brother was joking.

Sam had laughed and had disappeared down the hall.

Dean blinked as the memory faded, shifting his gaze from the mug to Sam.

"You didn't spit in it, did you?"

Sam looked horrified at the question, too consumed with the tension of their current situation to remember the joke from almost a year ago. "What? No! I would never do that, Dean. I – "

Dean held up his hand to stop his brother's overreaction. "Hey. Relax. It was a joke. Remember?"

Sam hesitated, then nodded...but said nothing.

Dean sighed – because he _hated_ this – and set the bottle of painkillers on the table, noticing the glass and whiskey bottle from last night was gone.

Sam either pouring out the liquor or hiding it like he did whenever he started worrying that Dean was drinking too much and too often.

And that also spoke volumes.

Because a Sam who worried was a Sam who cared...and that's what _brothers_ did – they worried about each other because they cared.

...which meant apparently little brothers didn't have an "off" switch, either.

Dean stared at Sam knowingly.

Sam stared back and shifted again in front of the stove, his bare feet whispering over the floor.

There was a beat of silence before the grease in the pan suddenly popped.

Sam startled at the sound, dropping the tongs – _and_ the bacon – on reflex and stepping back, rubbing his arm where the grease had landed.

"Whoa. Careful..." Dean warned and closed the gap between them, coming alongside Sam and reaching for his brother. "You okay?"

The words were out of his mouth before Dean could stop them.

But if Sam didn't want Dean's concern, he didn't show it...and he didn't flinch away from his brother's touch.

He only nodded, continuing to rub his arm. "Yeah. Just kinda stung..."

"...and _burned_," Dean added, examining the red spot near Sam's wrist before crossing to the freezer for ice. "Here..." he told his brother.

Sam accepted the frosty cube and held it against the minor burn, instantly reducing the heat and pain...and hopefully reducing the chances of blistering as well.

Sam sighed and briefly closed his eyes, clearly frustrated that the morning wasn't going as planned.

Dean watched him, feeling a twinge of sympathy.

Because it seemed like even when Sam was trying to do something good...it still didn't turn out like he expected.

Dean could relate.

_You convince yourself you're doing more good than bad...but you're not. _

Even this morning, Sam's words still stung like hell.

Dean sighed, refocusing himself. "Listen..."

Sam opened his eyes, his fingers becoming numb as the ice cube melted between them.

"How 'bout I finish this..." Dean offered, pointing at the bacon still sizzling in the pan. "...and you get started on the liquid chicken."

Because everyone knew bacon was useless without a side of eggs.

Sam looked relieved at the suggestion but wrinkled his nose at Dean's description of eggs – _liquid chicken_ – and shook his head. "Dean...you know I hate it when you call them that."

"I know," Dean agreed and smiled, thankful for the brief glimpse of normalcy between them.

Because_ this_ was how it was supposed to feel between them – natural and easy.

Sam twitched a smile of his own.

But the expression faded as quickly as it had appeared, and he sighed, then coughed...and then coughed a little louder as he moved away from Dean.

Now standing at the stove with the retrieved tongs, Dean frowned at his brother's back as Sam tossed the ice cube in the sink and crossed to the fridge, blotting his wet arm with the hem of his shirt.

"How's the burn?"

"Better."

Dean nodded and waited for Sam to return to the counter before tilting his head, indicating the bottle of painkillers on the table behind them.

"Heard you looking for those earlier..."

Sam paused in opening the egg carton and followed the direction of Dean's gesture, glancing over his shoulder. "Oh. Yeah..." He nodded as he saw the medicine. "Yeah. Um...thanks."

And just like that, the tension was back.

Dean resisted the urge to groan, but god...this was uncomfortable as hell.

He sighed instead. "You've been coughing a lot this morning."

Sam's attention darted to Dean – seeming uncertain as to what that comment was supposed to mean – and then his eye contact skittered away. "Yeah. Sorry. If I woke you up, I mean..."

Dean shook his head and flipped the bacon. "That's not what I was saying, Sam. It's fine." He paused. "How's your neck?"

...though Dean already had an idea, judging by the finger-shaped bruises smudged around Sam's throat and...well...all that coughing.

Sam shrugged. "Sore," he admitted, gingerly touching the marred skin. "Forgot how much I hate being choked..."

Dean hummed his response. Because he hadn't forgotten how much he hated _seeing_ Sam choked...which seemed to happen all the fucking time – the bad guys always seeming to go for his little brother's neck or head.

Speaking of...

"And your head?"

Sam's hand slid to the back of his neck and up into his hair, wincing as he rubbed the knot hidden beneath. "That's why I was looking for the painkillers."

Dean nodded, feeling his big brother instincts once again flare at the confirmation that his little brother didn't feel well.

Sam's hand lingered at the back of his head before he reached for an egg, tapping it against the side of the bowl he already had on the counter and cracking it open.

"Take a couple with breakfast, huh?" Dean commented about the painkillers. "Then maybe just take it easy today..."

Sam said nothing in response to the advice, but Dean felt him tense.

He glanced at his brother standing beside him, noticing Sam's clenched jaw.

Dean frowned. "Sam..."

"Just..." Sam's voice was hoarse and quiet. "Just stop, Dean."

Dean wasn't sure what he was expecting Sam to say...but that wasn't it.

His frown deepened, feeling his earlier hurt and rage begin to return.

Because Dean really wasn't in the mood for another "fuck you, I'm a big boy now" speech from his little brother.

"Just..." Sam continued, his hand actually shaking as he placed the empty eggshell back in the carton.

Dean watched his brother, suddenly realizing that this wasn't a defiant Sam; this wasn't a Sam who was clenching his jaw in anger. This was an _upset_ Sam, a Sam who was fighting to keep his emotions in check.

As if offering proof, Sam inhaled a shaky breath and swallowed. "Just...please stop being nice to me." He glanced at Dean with misty eyes. "Because I don't deserve it. Not after what I said last night. Not after what I said last week..."

And just like that, Dean felt his own wall begin to crumble.

"Sam – "

" – no," Sam interrupted and shook his head. "I mean it, Dean. Please stop. 'Cause every time you're nice to me, it just reminds me what an asshole I am."

Dean blinked, not liking Sam describing himself as that...but unable to dispute it with last night's words still so fresh.

"Well..." Dean began, feeling obligated to defend Sam from himself...because after all, Sam was talking about Dean's little brother. "You're not _always _an asshole."

Sam choked on a humorless laugh and glanced at Dean.

"Just...you know..." Dean shrugged, trying to lighten the truth. "_Sometimes_ you're an asshole."

_Like when you say hurtful shit to me only because you're hurting, too._

...which wasn't a fair card for Dean to play since he had said some pretty shitty things to Sam in the past as well.

Hypocrite much?

Dean felt a stab of guilt at the sudden realization, some of his self-righteous fire draining.

Because how many times had _he_ been an asshole to Sam?

Yeah.

Think on that.

Dean sighed – because he knew that had happened too many times – then inwardly shook himself, refocusing on his brother as Sam began to speak.

"I know what I said hurt you." Sam paused, his hands splayed on the counter like he was holding himself steady under the weight of what he had to say now. "What I said last week...what I said last night...I know it hurt you." He glanced at Dean. "And I'm sorry. I really am." He paused again. "But Dean...even though you heard me...and even though I meant what I said...I don't think you _heard_ what I _meant_."

Dean arched an eyebrow, feeling somehow called out. "Okay..." he allowed, aware that they were crossing into emotional territory and trying to keep himself calm, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. "Then how 'bout you tell me what you meant..."

...although Dean wondered if he wanted to know.

Because what if what Sam really meant was worse than what Dean had already interpreted?

How much _more_ would that hurt?

Dean swallowed at the thought but pushed anyway, his pain and anger returning.

"Tell me, Sam. Let's hear it. Tell me what I _should've_ heard. Because what I heard was my little brother telling me that he didn't want to be brothers anymore. What I heard was my little brother telling me that he would let me die. What I heard was my little brother telling me to _fuck off._"

Sam shook his head, his eyes wide with unshed tears; his expression both frantic and panicked. Because no...that's not what he had been saying at all.

Sam opened his mouth to further explain himself but startled them both when he coughed instead of spoke, the sound harsh and painful...especially as it continued.

Dean frowned and instantly softened, his hand instinctively settling on Sam's shoulder as his little brother hunched forward. "Hey. Easy..."

But Sam only gasped.

"Sammy. Dude..." Dean admonished and shook his head. "Look...at the risk of pissing you off 'cause I'm bossing you around, sit your ass down," he told his brother and nudged Sam in the direction of the table. "Have you even had any water this morning? Jesus..."

Sam listened to Dean's big-brother-bitching and did as he was told, sitting on the stool Dean had occupied last night because it was the closest place to sit.

Behind him, the bacon's sizzling quieted as Dean switched off the stove and moved the pan to the backburner.

Barely a second later, a cabinet door slammed as Dean snatched a glass and crossed to the sink, filling the glass with water.

"Here..."

Sam glanced up as Dean appeared on the opposite side of the table, shoving the glass at him.

"Thanks," Sam croaked, accepting the water and closing his eyes as he drank; his irritated throat instantly soothed.

"And these..." Dean added, shaking two painkillers into his hand and plopping them into Sam's palm.

Sam didn't even open his eyes, just took the pills and drank his water and wondered how he ever got so lucky to have Dean in his life.

The guy Sam sometimes treated like shit...but who still loved Sam any damn way.

Sam felt the fresh burn of tears and opened his eyes, not surprised that Dean was now sitting across from him and staring right at him.

"Better?"

Sam nodded.

"Good." Dean paused. "Dumbass."

Sam gave a startled laugh, the sound on the verge of a breakdown. "Yeah," he agreed and held his brother's gaze. "Dean..."

Dean blinked at him expectantly.

Sam sighed, his fingers nervously sliding back and forth over the nearly empty glass now sitting on the table between them.

"What I said last night – "

" – oh, yeah," Dean interrupted, as though he had forgotten about their conversation until Sam had just mentioned it again. "That. Now, are we talking about the part where I only sacrifice if I don't get hurt...or the part about you not saving me? I just wanna make sure we're on the same page."

Sam said nothing as tears welled and he bit his lower lip – a nervous habit – then immediately hissed in pain as the split flesh started bleeding for the second time that morning.

And it was _really hard_ for Dean to stay pissed when Sam kept hurting himself.

The big brother sighed and pulled a bandana from the pocket of his sweatpants, wordlessly offering it to Sam.

Sam stared at the familiar blue fabric. "Do you ever _not_ carry that?" he asked, the words slightly distorted from his finger pressed against his bleeding lip as he accepted the bandana.

Dean shrugged, because no...he always had that thing.

Over the years, that old bandana had wiped more little brother spit, snot, vomit, and blood than Dean cared to remember...and it was still doing so even today.

Big brothers were always prepared.

And Dean always had his blue bandana, was always prepared to take care of his kid.

He smiled softly as he watched that kid from across the table.

Sam held the thin fabric to his lip. "D – "

" – wait," Dean told his brother. "It's gonna crack open again if you don't give it a chance to clot." He paused. "And I ain't goin' nowhere, Sammy," he assured, hating it when Sam looked like a kicked puppy...and like _Dean_ had done the kicking. "We're gonna talk this out, okay? If I heard you wrong, I'm sorry. And I'm gonna listen to you now. But just...wait."

Sam inhaled a shaky breath, then nodded and swallowed and sighed.

Dean continued to watch him.

The silence stretched between them.

A few seconds passed.

"Let me see."

Sam wrinkled his nose as he carefully lifted the saturated fabric from his lip.

Dean leaned slightly forward and nodded, seeming satisfied that the blood had stopped oozing enough for Sam to talk. "Alright. You were saying?"

* * *

_**TBC**_


	4. Chapter 4

Sam sighed once more, fidgeting with the bandana as anxious energy hummed through him. "I know that you sacrifice for me..." he began, holding Dean's gaze from across the table. "I know that you've sacrificed for me your entire life. I _know_ that. And I appreciate it. I do. More than I can say." He paused. "And I know that you've endured a lot of shit for me...and that it's hurt you. And I'm sorry that I said it didn't. I was wrong to say that."

"Yeah," Dean agreed, his tone flat. "You were."

Sam nodded. "And I know what it's like to think you're doing the right thing...a _good _thing...but then it turns out to be a colossal cluster fuck."

Dean nodded.

Because he knew Sam knew.

After all...apocalypse, anyone?

Sam twitched a self-deprecating smile and clenched his jaw against the emotions threatening to surface as he plunged deeper into the issues between them.

"But Dean...when I said I wouldn't save you, I didn't mean it the way you heard it."

Dean arched an eyebrow.

Well, that was certainly good news.

"Okay..." Dean replied, proud of himself for how calm he was staying...although he knew part of that was because Sam was becoming so upset.

They always balanced each other.

"Then, tell me..." Dean prompted his brother. "What _did_ you mean? 'Cause, man..." He laughed, a hollow sound. "I really need to hear it the way you meant it."

Sam nodded, because he knew the way Dean had heard it; had seen Dean's reaction last night...like his words had fatally wounded his big brother.

And that was not Sam's intention.

Sam released a shaky breath. "I would die for you," he told his brother, repeating the words he had said several years ago while riding shotgun in the Impala.

Dean blinked as though he was surprised. "What?"

"I would," Sam assured, his voice still quiet and hoarse but resolute in the promise he was reaffirming. "But when I said that I wouldn't save you, I meant that if it was the same circumstances...if I _knew _you were ready to die...then..."

He paused, his fingers tightly gripping the bandana as if the fabric was giving him strength to continue.

"Then what, Sammy?"

Sam glanced up at his brother. "Then I would let you go," he whispered. "And it would hurt. It would hurt _so fucking bad..._but I would let you go, Dean. I wouldn't trick you...because I know you would hate that. And I wouldn't let something else possess you...because I know you would _really_ hate that."

Dean lifted his chin at the perceived accusation but said nothing, allowing Sam to finish.

Sam hesitated, his eyes welling with tears. "You're my big brother, Dean. There's _nothing_ I wouldn't do for you," he reminded, like he did back when he had first learned that Dean had sold his soul for him. "_Nothing_ I wouldn't do for you..." he repeated. "...including letting you go if that's what you wanted."

The quiet words packed a punch, and Dean felt momentarily stunned by their power.

His heart pounded as he stared at his little brother, speechless at Sam's bravery and strength, at the sheer depth and width of his love.

Because _that_ was love...letting something go, even if it killed you.

Sam watched his brother watching him.

There was silence.

And more silence.

Sam cleared his throat, winced, swallowed.

Dean pushed the glass of water closer with a pointed look.

Sam nodded and drank...and then broke the silence.

"I'm not saying I wouldn't follow right after you," he admitted about the likelihood of him taking his own life if Dean was gone again. "Because I probably would...and you'd be pissed." Sam laughed as he blinked wet eyelashes. "You'd be _so_ pissed."

Dean nodded his agreement.

"But I'd let you go, Dean," Sam repeated. "I'd let you go if that was what you wanted." He paused, seeming to almost choke on a sob. "After all...I've done it before."

_I'm not gonna let you go to hell, Dean!_

_Yes, you are! Yes, you are..._

Dean remembered their words like it was yesterday, remembered how all he wanted was for Sam to just let him go...and Sam did. Although it went against everything inside of him, Sam had let Dean go because that's what Dean had wanted.

The memory was overwhelming.

Dean wasn't quite sure what to say.

He sighed.

"Sam – "

" – I'm sorry," Sam interrupted. "I'm sorry that I hurt you, Dean. But what you did hurt me, too."

Dean nodded at that truth. "I know," he agreed. "And that haunts me every day, Sam. Because you _know_ I'd never hurt you."

"I know you wouldn't," Sam assured, because whatever he doubted in this world, he never doubted that. "But you know how I feel about being possessed," he pointed out. "First Meg...and Lucifer...and..." He shook his head, refusing to list all the times he had been violated. "But you know what really bothers me?"

Dean stared at his brother, afraid to ask.

"All I keep thinking about...is what if Gadreel had killed _you_ instead of Kevin? What if you were dead _again_ because of me? What if I couldn't save you because I was locked away somewhere inside my own body?"

Dean blinked at the questions, because they had never crossed his mind.

"You say we're family," Sam continued. "And we are...of course we are. We're brothers. But everybody knows it and they use it against us, Dean. They know that the quickest way to _me_ is you...and the quickest way to _you_ is me...and I don't want you to die again because of something I did...or didn't do."

Dean felt a mixture of emotions surge through him.

Because yeah, he knew Sam was hurt by what he had done...but he had no idea Sam was carrying all _this _shit around.

But maybe he should have known.

After all, it was the same fear Sam had always harbored – that something bad would happen to Dean...and it would be Sam's fault.

Maybe that was another reason why Sam said he would let Dean go...because maybe then, they could both finally get peace.

Dean sighed. "Sammy – "

" – like this," Sam blurted, reaching for Dean's arm resting on the table. "What if I can't save you from this?"

Dean narrowed his eyes in confusion and looked down, Sam's fingers hovering over the welted skin on his forearm – the Mark of Cain.

"Sammy..." Dean tried again and pulled away from Sam's grasp. "Don't worry about this, okay? This has nothing to do with you. This is gonna help me _kill_ Abaddon, and that's it."

"No," Sam countered and shook his head. "It's a _curse_, Dean. Maybe it'll help you kill Abaddon...but that's not where it ends."

Dean arched an eyebrow.

Sam ducked his head. "You're not the only one who's been researching," he admitted, glancing back up at Dean.

Dean felt a warmth spread through his chest, reminded that his little brother loved him.

Because although they had barely mentioned the Mark of Cain, it seemed Sam was still worried about it and trying to find ways to save Dean...even before Dean realized he needed to be saved.

"It's a curse," Sam repeated, his voice quiet...and maybe even a little scared. "Why do you think Cain was by himself?" he asked rhetorically and then answered it anyway. "Because he was cursed to be without his family...and it doesn't end there."

Dean nodded. "I know," he agreed, because he had read the same theories.

He sighed.

Sam did the same.

Dean watched his brother. "Sammy..."

Sam blinked at him.

"I know I shouldn't have lied to you."

"_Again_," Sam reminded and shook his head. "Dean. After everything you said in the church, I thought we were done with that."

"We are," Dean assured. "We are, Sammy. I didn't _want_ to lie to you. I just...I just didn't know what else to do, man."

Sam nodded, understanding.

After all, he had been in the same position.

Telling lies to protect yourself...but primarily telling them because you thought you were also protecting your brother.

Sam sighed.

Dean cleared his throat, knowing it was his turn to apologize.

"You know, Sammy..." he began. "I was pissed over what you said last night...and what you said last week. And I mean_ pi__ssed_, man. Really fucking pissed and hurt..."

Sam flinched at the words, his eyes freshly misting. "I'm sorry."

Dean nodded. "I know. But you're not the only one who's sorry here, Sam."

Sam tilted his head.

"I'm sorry for what happened," Dean told his brother. "I'm sorry I lied to you. I'm sorry for the choices I made...for what I _allowed_ to happen to you on my watch. And I'm gonna have to live with that. I'm gonna have to live with the fact that I _let _something hurt you...that hell, I even invited him in and asked him to stay."

Dean could still see that smug sonuvabitch standing in a ring of holy fire and lying his angelic ass off.

Dean's hands fisted on reflex, freshly determined to find Gadreel and _end him_ – not only for what he had done to Kevin...but for what he had done to _Sam_.

"Don't think that doesn't haunt me every day," Dean continued, staring at his little brother from across the table. "And I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm sorry I allowed that to happen. And I'm sorry that I wasn't strong enough to let you go. But Sam..."

Dean paused, ducking his head to prevent himself from blurting out what he was about to say...but then he sighed and shrugged.

"Fuck it," Dean whispered, seeming resolved to just say whatever was on his lips.

Sam waited, blinking at Dean at his brother lifted his head and refocused on him.

"I love you, Sammy."

Sam's eyes widened, having always known that...having never really doubted that, no matter how bad things had gotten between them over the years...but having never actually _heard_ Dean say those words since they were kids.

Dean chuckled softly at Sam's shocked expression. "Dude. Don't look at me like that. I might not say it much...or..._ever_ – but I love you, little brother. You're the best part of my life. You always have been. And man...it's hard to give up the best part of your life. It's hard to let that go."

Sam felt his chest and throat tighten, felt his eyes sting.

"So, I can't promise you that I'll let you go if something else happens," Dean confessed, blinking against his own threatening tears. "But I _can_ promise you that I'll try. I will _try _to let you go, if that's what you want."

Sam shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere," he promised, repeating the words Dean had said to him earlier as they had waited for his lip to stop bleeding.

Dean quirked a smile. "I might hold you to that."

Sam gave a watery smile in return.

"I can also promise you that we're done with lying, Sam. No more of that shit. From here on out...all cards on the table."

Sam nodded. "I'd like that."

"Same here."

"'Cause, Dean...if we're in this, then we're in it _together_."

"Hell yes," Dean heartily agreed. "You and me against the world. Kickin' ass and takin' names. That's how we do."

Sam snorted as his brother repeated his words from their interview back at Canyon Valley, just with less enthusiasm now that they weren't trying to bullshit their way into a job.

"Dude. That was _so_ over the top when you did that."

Dean arched an eyebrow. "_I_ was over the top?" he countered. "What about that other guy going all Mr. Miyagi?"

Sam laughed.

Dean's smile lingered.

There was a beat of silence – _comfortable_ silence.

"Alright...well...now that we've cared and shared and cried like girls..."

Sam rolled his eyes.

"...I think it's time we eat. 'Cause I'm starving," Dean announced and stood, staring down at Sam. "What d'ya say we finish making breakfast?"

Sam nodded and stood as well. "And after we eat, we do more research and start figuring out what the hell we're gonna do about _that_."

Dean followed his brother's gaze to the Mark of Cain branded in his forearm and then glanced back at Sam. "Sounds like a plan."

"Well, it's a start..." Sam allowed. "But we_ need_ a plan – a _good_ one."

Dean nodded. "We'll have one, Sammy," he assured about figuring out how to handle their latest problem. "But first, I need coffee and bacon...and liquid chicken."

Sam cringed. "Ugh. Dean..."

Dean chuckled, affectionately patting Sam's chest and holding his hand where his brother's tattoo should be. "Oh, and P.S. – we're getting that put back on. I don't like you walking around without it."

Sam wrinkled his nose, remembering the pain from the first time he was inked, but nodded. "Yeah. I've been thinking about that, too."

"Good," Dean replied – the decision made – and knocked his shoulder against Sam's as he crossed back to the stove.

Sam smiled, turning and crossing back to the counter to stand beside his brother and resume cracking the eggs.

Dean reached for the pan of bacon and glanced at Sam, feeling happier than he had in a long time.

Because _this_ was how it was supposed to be between them – natural and easy.

No secrets, no lies.

No quiet resentment, no concealed bitterness.

Just them, _together_.

Having each other's backs...and loving each other in their own way.

Because there were a million different ways to say, "I love you."

You just had to listen.

* * *

_**END**_


End file.
